Stories

He rode his bicycle in the hills, straining his knees to keep his course straight, his arms outstretched like wings, and felt the air beneath him. He ran through flocks of nestled sparrows in the cobbled square, driving them into the sky. He lay in the...

The inside of my head is a weathered cave, waterlogged and echoing. You sloshed in through my mouth, stepping on my teeth like a tiny Giant’s Causeway, feeling them lurch and rattle underfoot. Inside my skull, where the waters have worn out gouge...

My eyes are sights, telescopic and heat-sensitive. I cannot blink or look away, I cannot tear up to get the grit out. My hard drive is spacious, my shutter-speed quick. I cannot un-see what I see, and I see you. I see the live feed of you bleeding into...

Makeshift machete in hand, some blood still in his body, he moves forward through mud and tile, leaning against the curved corridor wall lined with metal frames and layers of peeled posters showing bright beaches, bright eyes, shiny cars and theater st...

The bridge disappears into the night. It’s a span of high-tension super-concrete, widening here between the Diomedes into a glittering glass village and a glistening ice park. The stretch he can see runs away from him, due north, along the Intern...

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I’m happy to report most of the turbulence seems to be behind us, and we’re back at a cruising altitude now. The rest of your flight looks like it should be fairly smooth.
“U...

“She’s taking on passengers, looks like,” said the bosun, straightening up, then contorting to stretch his back in the stout compartment.
“Of course he is,” the captain took a drag on his misshapen cigarette. Reaching for ...

“I hate her,” said the commander.
“I know,” said the bosun. “Not long now, sir.” They were a near to a dozen, but only ever they spoke—commander and bosun. The rest smoked damp, lumpy cigarettes, exhaling through a...

He’s hacking through the jungle with something that he thinks was used, once, to cut paper. He’s stepping over the kind of flat, black-soil patch amidst the cracked asphalt that makes him think of mass graves.
The vines reach out from lampp...